


The Riot Alarm

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/M, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slaves John and Molly are at the mall when an alarm goes off, signaling a riot somewhere in the entertainment complex. John is both relieved and disturbed to find that the Holmes family has contingencies in place for just such occurrences, which are not especially rare given the huge income disparity in the country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Riot Alarm

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

John and Molly had permission to be at the mall. This was verified by salesclerks every time they made a purchase with Sherlock’s account. John understood the logic of checking at that point, but some people were, he felt, rather rude about it—they didn’t have to look at him suspiciously and demand he put his thumb on the scanner like he’d already been asked and refused, for example. Some people just didn’t like or trust slaves, he supposed.

Or, some people might like to know there was a class of person they could lord over—Molly had told him that virtually all of the mall’s staff went home outside the compound at the end of the day, meaning that at best they lived in one of the nicer slums. Okay, there were secure apartment buildings and gated communities of very small, ordinary houses for those who could afford them—maybe the store manager, if her husband also had a solid job. But the salesgirl probably did live in a slum. The disparity between rich and poor here, with barely any middle class, was a source of amazement and confusion to John, especially since he couldn’t find much hard information on it or anyone who was interested in discussing it with him. At least Sherlock let him read whatever he wanted now, including the news websites.

Speaking of which, John and Molly brought a pile of books up to the counter at the bookstore as usual—they had an e-reader but not everything was available in that format, and occasionally the Western websites decided to block IP addresses originating from their country, depending on which way the diplomatic wind was blowing. The West imposing sanctions on a country with an institutionalized slave trade? How prudish.

Sherlock was not with them, of course; he loathed shopping and the mall. But he allowed Molly and John to go by themselves, especially when he had something new to amuse himself with. John had taken one look at that tank of eels that had been delivered to their suite that morning and decided that today seemed like a good shopping day.

The clerk totaled up their purchases. “And can I get those delivered?” John asked. “Sherlock Holmes’s suite, please. This will go on his account.”

Immediately the woman’s gaze narrowed and snapped to him, and John stifled a sigh. “Fingerprint,” she instructed coolly, and John swiped it. She took a little longer than was really necessary, he thought, looking between him and the screen—apparently she could bring up his picture from the database and make sure it was really him. “I’ve emailed the receipt to your master,” she informed him, emphasizing the word ‘master’ a bit. “They will be delivered later this afternoon.”

“Okay, thank you—“ John began, but the woman was already looking past him to the next person in line. He felt his temper flare. “Have a nice day,” he told her, not moving from the spot yet. “Good-bye.” The woman started to outright glare at him, the customer behind him stepped up awkwardly, and Molly tugged on his arm.

They left the bookstore and entered the wide hallway of the mall, which was lit from above with fake sunlight. John let out a sigh as Molly slid her hand down to his. “You’ve got to be more careful, John,” she told him earnestly. “She might file a complaint about you!”

“For saying ‘have a nice day’ and ‘good-bye’?” he scoffed, even though he knew this was far from impossible. “She’s just mad because she didn’t realize I was a slave.”

“Yes, that’s the _point_ ,” Molly agreed. Molly was always properly subservient—eyes downcast, voice timid, calling everyone ma’am and sir. At least when they were out in public; and definitely more than John when they were with Sherlock, though she livened up considerably. People understood she was a slave right away.

“I’m _polite_ ,” John insisted as they strolled along. “It’s not my fault we don’t have to wear special clothes or collars or something.” Delightful as that would be.

“Don’t give them any ideas,” Molly advised.

“Well, where do you want to go next?” John asked, tabling their philosophical discussion for later.

Molly glanced around speculatively. “What about the—“ Her words were cut off by the sudden buzzing of an alarm.

“What’s that?” John asked, as all around them people began to pause and look at each other. “Is it a fire alarm?” The pretzel place near them abruptly dropped its heavy gate over the storefront, as if closing up for the night.

“No…” Molly’s eyes widened suddenly as she understood. “It’s the riot alarm!”

As a soldier John was used to acting quickly and thinking later, or on the way. So while he wasn’t exactly sure what all a ‘riot alarm’ entailed, it obviously wasn’t good, and he spun Molly around to face the way they’d come. “We should get home,” he decided.

She agreed. All around them people were beginning to panic—some stores allowed customers to stay locked in when they dropped their barriers, others kicked them out, causing patrons in the hall to make mad dashes for the stores that seemed sheltering. John didn’t want to run, but he wove swiftly through the crowd, tugging Molly behind him.

“Sherlock says to come home now,” she reported, and John glanced back to see her indicating her phone. Nice to know he’d thought of them, anyway. Though if Sherlock was aware of the alarm, that meant it wasn’t confined only to the public areas of the compound—which made it seem that much more serious.

The crowd was generally moving in the same direction as John and Molly, which was also in the direction of the family compound. Of course none of them knew where this rioting was occurring, so John just hoped this was a good instinct on all their parts. Maybe _too_ good: as they came within sight of the main doors that led into the private living spaces, he saw that they were firmly shut, not yielding even under the pressure of the frantic crowd, who felt that safety lay just beyond them.

“They’ve sealed the exit,” Molly breathed.

“There must be others.” John didn’t know what the policy was about sheltering members of the public, but he and Molly _belonged_ on the other side of those doors. “Can Sherlock—“ Though even as he started to formulate the question the strategist in him realized that particular set of doors ought never to open, because the unregulated public would rush in and negate the very security they were seeking. He ran through a map of the compound in his mind, searching for defensible spots. “The security office—“ It was far in the other direction, though.

Molly looked as if she’d had an idea and drew him away from the exit, towards a side hallway that was still quiet. A set of unremarkable doors led to stairs and she went upwards, John right behind her. The landing and industrial hallway she hurried through were eerily silent; then, to John’s surprise, they emerged in a back corner of the library. This was open to the public, too, but this section of obscure reference materials didn’t exactly attract crowds. But, there was an exit to the internal private compound, exactly what Molly had been looking for—unfortunately he could see a chain link barrier had already been dropped across it.

Molly still ran for it, though, and John finally saw the two guards who were still at their station, in a no-man’s-land with barriers on either side. Their expressions did not exactly evoke confidence—nervous rookies trying to remember their training at an exit that was normally low-pressure. John made eye contact with them. “Can you let us in?” he asked swiftly. “We belong to Sherlock Holmes.”

The guards glanced at each other. “We aren’t supposed to let anyone in once the barrier is down,” one of them replied, but he sounded uncertain.

John took advantage of that. “Please? There’s no one behind us, and our master told us to come home.” He hoped this sounded appropriately subservient and loyal—now was not the time to irritate someone.

The other guard looked less willing. “How do we know you _really_ belong to him?” he asked suspiciously, looking for any excuse to deny them.

“Check our fingerprints,” John suggested, but then he heard noise behind him and Molly squeezed his arm—maybe the crowd had also found that back stairwell, and realized where it led. The rush of footsteps and the insistent braying of the alarm were making John feel slightly desperate—even if they were far from the original problem a panicking crowd could become its own riot. “Have you ever met the man?” he asked, meaning Sherlock. “No one would claim they belonged to him unless they really did!”

This was _not_ very subservient or loyal; but evidently at least one of the guards knew what he meant, and didn’t want to risk Sherlock’s wrath. He nodded at the other guard, who tapped some buttons that make the chain link barrier wiggle slightly. Between John, the guard, and the mechanism they lifted it a couple of feet, enough for John and Molly to roll under, before dropping it back down. Then a solid barrier began to descend from the ceiling, just as the crowd noises increased and the first people burst around the corner.

John couldn’t imagine they were _bad_ people. They weren’t raging zombie hordes or armed rebels, for example. They were just shoppers, enjoying their day in a nice place, a welcome change from the rest of their lives. John was glad it was not his decision whether to let them in or shut them out. He and Molly ducked under the second barrier, allowing them into the private area of the compound.

It was silent as they jogged through the wide, wood-paneled halls, oddly so. The beep of their phones startled them and Molly slowed to check hers. “Oh, Sherlock’s been texting!” she conveyed with distress. “I should reply, so he knows we’re okay—“

“We’re almost there,” John insisted, speeding her up. “What’s a riot alarm, anyway?”

“It means there’s a riot somewhere in the compound,” Molly answered, trying to text as she ran. John had figured that bit out. “In the public parts, I mean. Sometimes it’s just a fistfight that’s started to spread,” she added hopefully. Things were bleak if _that_ constituted reason for hope.

“Does this happen often?” This was his first.

“Every few years,” Molly admitted vaguely. “The people outside—they can be very restless sometimes—“

“No wonder,” John muttered as they darted around a corner. Even one of the minor paintings on display in these halls, which family members barely glanced at, was worth more than the average person ‘outside’ would see in their lifetime.

Finally they reached Sherlock’s hallway, instinctively hurrying more even though there was no one around. John quickly swiped his thumb over the panel but it didn’t light up, and when he tried to open the door anyway, it remained locked.

“I’m texting him,” Molly said, typing furiously, while John pounded on the door.

“Sherlock! It’s us! Open the door!”

To John’s relief the door finally opened. “Get in,” Sherlock ordered, as if that wasn’t exactly their plan. As soon as they were inside he shut the door again, quickly engaging several mechanical locks John hadn’t noticed before. “In case the electronic security system is compromised,” Sherlock told him briskly, fiddling with a small cabinet on the wall. “Which it apparently has been. Hold this, it’s heavy.”

John took the rope Sherlock handed him, which ran into the cabinet and did indeed have something heavy pulling on it. “Release it slowly,” Sherlock ordered, and a metal gate began to descend from the ceiling, a sort of portcullis that Sherlock guided down to the floor, blocking the door.

This was getting serious.

John had expected Sherlock to blow off the alarm, be irritated that it was interrupting his day—or worse, he’d want to go find the riot and gawk at it. But instead he was taking this grimly, and that made John nervous when he’d thought he would finally feel safe. “What’s going on?” John demanded, when the portcullis was on the floor. “What do you mean about the security system?”

Instead Sherlock rounded on him angrily. “Where’ve you _been_?” he snapped. “I’ve been texting and calling since the alarm went off!”

John’s hackles rose and he took a step closer to Sherlock. “Sorry we couldn’t stop and _chat_ ,” he responded sarcastically, “but we were in _rather_ a hurry to get out—“

Molly intervened suddenly, throwing her arms around Sherlock’s neck. “We didn’t know what to do!” she claimed tearfully. “They sealed the main exit in the mall—“

John sighed, rubbing Molly’s back as Sherlock embraced her. “Molly thought to go to the library, on the second floor—“

“By the scientific reference materials?” Sherlock realized. Perhaps he spent a lot of time there—maybe that was how the guards knew him. “Oh, that’s very clever, Molly.” His tone was slightly forced in his attempt to soothe her, but at least he tried.

“The guards almost wouldn’t let us through!” she went on. “And then this crowd of people came running after us—“

“They sealed it before they got through,” John assured Sherlock, when his eyes widened in alarm. “Honestly, what’s going on? Have you any idea?”

Before Sherlock could answer his phone beeped and he glanced down at it. “Molly, go wait in my bedroom, we’ll be there soon,” he dismissed. She didn’t really seem to mind his tone, just leaving them, and her hand lingered in his until he dropped it deliberately and gave her a pointed look. John waited impatiently for her to be out of hearing, since that was obviously what Sherlock wanted before he would continue. “Mycroft is frustratingly vague on details,” he finally said, texting a message back. “The main guardhouse was attacked.”

“S—t,” John breathed.

“Family have been ordered to their rooms, slaves to the slave quarters,” Sherlock went on, spinning his laptop around on the dining table. John wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at, though. “Standard procedure. But the network of security cameras is down,” he added, and John realized the picture on the screen was the outside of Sherlock’s door from several angles. “I have my own private system, of course, just out in the hall,” he said breezily. The picture changed as he clicked buttons. “Mycroft’s room, Mummy’s—of course she’s perfectly safe, at the very center of the compound.”

He sounded concerned, which was touching and humanizing, but John knew better than to draw attention to it. “What does it mean, that the security cameras are down?”

“Could be a simple disrupted electrical connection or network outage,” Sherlock rattled off, “or it could be a deliberate part of the attack, far more sophisticated than a spontaneous riot—“

“Are we—are we _under attack_?” John asked in disbelief. “Where’s the—that military base is nearby, has anyone called the—“

Sherlock looked up at him then, the usual disdainful expression oddly comforting. “John, it’s more likely a few impoverished citizens, not Godzilla.”

John rolled his eyes. “Alright, well, what’s with this thing?” he asked, indicating the portcullis. “When did you have _that_ installed?”

“It’s always been here, John, you merely failed to observe,” Sherlock corrected patronizingly. Then, tellingly, he switched back to an informative tone. “Much of the primary security system is controlled electronically. If it were compromised, no door would stay locked,” he explained ominously. “So there are mechanical back-up systems.” He indicated the rope attached to the portcullis. “There’s a series of pulleys to help raise and lower this, but it’s totally mechanical. Look, if you ever think someone is going to get through the door”—John raised his eyebrows in alarm at the possibility, but at the same time understood the importance of being prepared—“use this blade to cut the rope here, that will make the barrier drop on its own and it will be quite hard to lift again.”

John blinked at him, taking in the portcullis, the secondary security monitors, and Sherlock’s overall knowledgeable attitude. “This isn’t exactly a rare occurrence here, is it?” he said. “The impoverished masses rising up against you.”

He hadn’t really meant to put anything in his tone, but Sherlock looked up from his computer sharply. “Don’t think they’ll spare you because you’re a slave, John,” he informed him, with cold seriousness. “To them you’re just another target. They probably wouldn’t even _believe_ you’re a slave,” he added, with some sarcasm. “You and Molly should be just as invested in defending against the mob as I am.”

“I am, I am,” John insisted quickly. He still got a slightly ‘disloyal’ vibe from Sherlock. “In the Army, we dealt a lot with crowd control. No one was safe if people started to run wild, looting, setting fires—“ He broke off, not wanting to encourage those memories right now. The thought of the desperate people he’d seen when out with Sherlock gaining access to the inner compound, encountering the family—things could easily turn deadly.

Sherlock gazed at him assessingly and finally seemed convinced. “Alright, you keep an eye on the—“ The lights flickered and then extinguished, plunging them into total darkness except for the glow of the battery-powered laptop—they were deep inside the compound with no real windows.

“Sherlock—“ John felt compelled to say, foolishly, as he stood frozen in place.

“S—t,” Sherlock responded, which seemed like a bad sign. He looked up at John, his face ghostly pale in the light from the screen. “Wait…”

Suddenly a greenish light appeared in the room, mainly on the floors, and John started to laugh a little in relief—safety lighting, like on an airplane. Then he realized what such extensive preparation for a power outage must mean and sobered quickly. More and more he was beginning to see this place almost as a military base in hostile territory.

Sherlock’s phone beeped again and he frowned as he glanced at it. “You haven’t seen Anthea, have you?” he asked John casually, who shook his head.

“She’s missing? She’s not with Lord Mycroft?” Obviously not. “Should we—should we go look for her?” The elegant young woman did not give off a ‘survivor’ vibe.

“No,” Sherlock declared definitively, thinking it obvious. “Come on.” He gathered up the laptop and led the way through the dark room and down the hall.

“Sherlock?” Molly called nervously from the bedroom. A spot of light appeared at their feet as they entered, from the torch she held as she sat on the bed.

“Who else,” Sherlock remarked, as if uncertainty about who might enter wasn’t the whole problem. He traded Molly the laptop for the torch. “I’m going to show John the hatch,” he told her mysteriously. “Keep an eye on the cameras, the battery back-ups will last for a bit. Anthea’s missing.”

“Oh no!” Molly exclaimed. John squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, not having time for anything else as Sherlock had already disappeared into the bathroom.

He was standing impatiently by the linen closet when John arrived a second later. “Move that away,” he instructed, indicating the extra toilet paper and other goods they kept stored on the floor of the closet. As John did so he noticed what looked like a handle embedded into the floor. “Pull it up,” Sherlock encouraged and John realized the closet floor was actually more like a trapdoor, which opened up to reveal a dark hole. Sherlock shone the torch down it and John had the impression of stone walls with a ladder.

“An escape hatch,” he noted, even more amazed, and frightened, by the precautions that had been taken. “Where does it lead?”

“Two directions,” Sherlock explained briskly. “East, you’re heading for the sea. The tunnel comes out near the docks where we keep some boats. West, it takes you to the central citadel, where you can climb up to the roof and be airlifted out. _Do not_ tell anyone about this,” he warned, before John could fully process the information. “Do not talk about it in public, do not assume anyone knows about it. Most slaves don’t and if it got out our means of escape would be compromised.”

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face very well with only the greenish floor lighting; but something in his tone struck a chord. “Have you ever had to escape?” he guessed carefully.

“Yes, when I was a child,” Sherlock replied, as if it was nothing at all. “Mummy, Mycroft, and I went to the citadel and waited, thinking a helicopter was coming for us. But then the Army dispersed the crowd and we went back home.”

“That’s awful,” John tried to sympathize, lowering the trapdoor again.

“Yes, I was terribly disappointed, I really wanted to ride in a helicopter,” Sherlock remarked, apparently serious.

John blinked but moved on. East to the sea, west to the helicopter, he thought to himself, trying to fix it in his mind. He thought he might be able to pilot a boat, depending on the type. “Would they—they wouldn’t pick us up in a helicopter, would they?” he checked with Sherlock in a low voice, not wanting Molly to hear.

“Of course, that’s the point,” Sherlock started to reply.

“No, I mean—if they’re rescuing family members, they’re not going to save two seats for slaves,” he presumed.

Sherlock looked as if he honestly hadn’t thought of it that way; John decided he could be gratified by that later. “We’ll take the boat, then,” he decided, and John didn’t miss the ‘we.’ “There’s more room but it’s also more dangerous, more chance of being spotted.”

“Right, and where would we sail to?” John questioned matter-of-factly.

“One of the other cities,” Sherlock shrugged. “Well, it depends on the source of the riot. If it’s actually a political coup, some compounds or the military might be our enemy.”

“G-d, it’s like living in Cuba,” John declared, finding this all incredibly surreal. “ _Is_ this a political coup? Who normally hates you?”

Sherlock was not offended at his phrasing, possibly because he had no idea of the answer. “Politics are boring,” he opined.

“Lord Mycroft said something about a member of Parliament last week at dinner,” John remembered vaguely. “Stanhope? Playing dirty in the election—“ This place _had_ a Parliament, and elections. Naturally slaves couldn’t vote.

Sherlock was staring at him. “Why were you listening to my brother’s drivel?” he inquired, and John’s temper flared.

“It’s hardly _drivel_ if it could save our lives!” he hissed.

Sherlock gave him a look that said he was being irrational again, and John tried to take some calming breaths. “Our lives are not in danger, John,” he said coolly, and John could almost believe it from his tone. “Should they later become endangered, I will let you know.”

“Oh, good then.”

Sherlock admirably ignored his sarcasm and went back to the bedroom, where Molly was trying to steady herself by flipping obsessively through the camera feeds. “Get the laptop cord,” Sherlock ordered John, who fished it out from under the table where Sherlock normally charged the device. “Plug it in here.”

“A generator?” These people did not miss a trick. “Why is the generator inside the—“ Then he suddenly realized why it was inside the bathroom. Because that was the place of last resort. You could barricade the doors to the suite, the bedroom, and the bathroom, and escape through the hatch while people were beating those down. John decided to keep this particular thought to himself—Sherlock would find it obvious, and Molly upsetting.

“Someone’s coming!” Molly announced suddenly, staring at the computer screen, and as Sherlock leaned over her shoulder John heard a thumping at the door that caused his adrenaline to kick into high gear.

“It’s Anthea,” Sherlock noted, sounding intrigued by her presence at his door, and John relaxed marginally.

“Is it over, then?” That was his first thought, that she was some kind of messenger from Lord Mycroft.

Sherlock gave him an acidic look. “No, it’s not over,” he replied witheringly, as Anthea knocked harder.

“We’re going to let her in, aren’t we?” Molly prompted, gentle but earnest. Sherlock glanced at her as if he’d been hoping no one would suggest it, and John finally came around to look for himself.

“Her tights are torn,” he observed, spotting a hole near the knee. “She might be hurt—“ He started to leave the bedroom.

“John!” Sherlock snapped, but John was having none of it. This was crisis mode and you didn’t leave an ally outside the wall.

“She’s our friend,” he shot back to Sherlock, who was forced to follow him into the living room. There was some weird thing between Sherlock and Anthea that even Molly couldn’t explain, some kind of hostility or mind games that Sherlock liked to play with her, possibly just to irritate his brother. “Lord knows she must be desperate to come _here_ for help,” he added.

Sherlock huffed but John could tell he was giving in. “Molly, is there anyone else on the cameras?” he called back to check.

She popped up just around the corner as Anthea banged on the door again. “No. You’re letting her in, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Get back.” Sherlock positioned John to the side with the rope. “You pull this up, I’ll open the door. Alright, already!” he shouted through the door to Anthea, who pounded it again.

John began to hoist up the portcullis. “She’s not answering her phone,” Molly fretted.

“Clearly she broke or lost it,” Sherlock judged, “or she’d be able to call Mycroft and get through the barriers to _his_ suite.”

With John firmly gripping the rope, Sherlock quickly undid the mechanical locks on the door. Then he opened it just a few inches, dragged Anthea in from the hall, and slammed the door behind her, chucking her aside in his haste to re-secure the door. Granted, he probably would’ve done that anyway. Then he stepped back and nodded at John to lower the portcullis, which he at least helped with.

Molly was already hugging Anthea, who was sniffling, by the time John was free to attend her. “Are you alright? Here, sit down—“

“No,” Sherlock countermanded. “Bedroom.” That was the more secure location, and John guided Anthea there with soothing words. He’d seen her around more than he’d interacted with her, and it didn’t seem like Lord Mycroft encouraged her to fraternize with other slaves—a lonely life, John felt, being someone’s beautiful decoration. And now her clothes were torn, her hair mussed, her make-up smudged, and she couldn’t get back to her protector.

“Shh, you’re safe now,” John promised her, helping her onto the bed with Molly. “Close your eyes and let me see.” He shone the torch over her and discovered only a skinned knee. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She shook her head. “No. I-I was in the atrium, and I fell—“ She was trying not to start crying again.

“You didn’t lose your phone, did you?” Sherlock demanded in a harsh tone.

John made a chiding noise at him. “First aid kit,” he requested, expectantly.

Sherlock let Molly get it. “Her phone could have sensitive data on it—“ he started to protest.

“No, it’s here,” Anthea promised, digging it from her little purse. “It’s just broken—“ Sherlock snatched it away to examine the shattered screen.

John applied antiseptic cream and a bandage to Anthea’s knee. Say this for Sherlock, he kept a well-stocked first aid kit. “There you go,” John reassured Anthea. “Do you need a drink? You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?” She seemed sure.

“Did you see the crowd?” Molly asked her. “Was it bad in the atrium?”

Anthea shrugged a little, dabbing at her face with a tissue. “Everyone just panicked when the alarm went off,” she reported, “and started running towards the inside of the compound.”

“Did you see the rioters get through the gates?” Sherlock wanted to know. The atrium was near the entrance. But Anthea shook her head.

“No, I was trying to get back to M-Mycroft,” she hiccupped, “and then I fell, and I was afraid I would be trampled—“ Molly hugged her as she started to get upset again.

“Hush now, you’re safe,” John told her again. “I’m sure Lord Mycroft is glad to know you’re here. He was asking about you earlier.” He was waiting for Sherlock to jump in. “Isn’t he?” John finally prompted. “Lord Mycroft glad Anthea’s safe?”

“How would he know?” Sherlock asked obtusely. “Her phone’s broken.”

In the dim light John dared to roll his eyes. “ _You’re_ going to text him, aren’t you?” He’d been hoping Sherlock had done this already.

“Oh. I suppose,” Sherlock agreed, and presumably began doing so. Lack of empathy, John reminded himself—he couldn’t imagine himself in Mycroft’s place, worried about his companion. “Mycroft says, good,” Sherlock relayed after a moment, making an effort to imbue the succinct reply with reassurance. Anthea seemed quite relieved by this.

Once the adrenaline wore off, the tedium began to set in. John tried to remember what he’d done in the Army during times like this, a spot of boredom in the midst of danger. Of course, it wasn’t so much about what you _did_ , as where your mind went.

“There’s an experiment I’ve been meaning to try, involving sensory deprivation—“ Sherlock began.

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, as sharply as he dared. “ _Timing_.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well, we’re all just sitting here doing nothing,” he noted grumpily. “At least my eels seem alright.” The squirmy, snake-like creatures were gliding around their tank in the bedroom, the bubbler having been plugged into the emergency generator. “But I can’t really _do_ anything with them until I have better lighting.” John did not ask what his plans for the eels were, and he sincerely hoped no one else did either. “I hope they don’t overheat,” Sherlock added, perturbed by everyone else’s lack of interest in this subject.

“It _does_ seem rather warm in here,” John commented idly, scooting off the bed to remove his jacket.

“The A/C’s off,” Sherlock reminded him. “Electricity?”

“Oh. Right.” John frowned as he thought this through. “Um, this building isn’t airtight, is it?” he asked.

“We’re not going to suffocate, John,” Sherlock asserted, as if this was the stupidest fear possible. “Something else would kill us far sooner than that,” he just had to continue, right when John and the others were finding comfort in his patronizing tone. “The heat, probably. Or lack of water, if that service was cut off.”

“Could we talk about something else?” John requested. The girls seemed in agreement with him, though they didn’t dare voice this opinion to Sherlock.

“Well you brought it up,” Sherlock reminded him, texting rapidly. John’s conversation was worth only part of his attention.

John cast around for a new topic. “So, Anthea—“ She looked up suddenly, as if fearful at being noticed. “What were you doing in the atrium? Anything interesting?”

“Spying for my brother, no doubt,” Sherlock supplied when she hesitated. “Some visiting ambassador, perhaps?”

“They’d be taken somewhere safe, wouldn’t they?” John speculated, a bit desperately. Though he well knew that around here foreign ambassadors were not given much consideration.

“The security office,” Anthea finally replied, when no one else did. “But it was already locked down—“ She bit her lip and stopped talking.

“How did you get into the family zone?” Molly asked her soothingly.

“In the ladies’ room in the northwest corner of the atrium,” Anthea began, “the utility closet leads to a tunnel, which comes out near a guard station. The one near the carousel? They let me through.”

John goggled at her. “A secret tunnel in the ladies’ room?” he repeated, his surprise only slightly exaggerated for comic effect. “I knew you girls had all the best stuff in there.” Anthea gave him a watery smile.

Molly started to describe their own adventure, but Sherlock interrupted her. “Oh, Mycroft says you know about the hatch,” he reported, indicating Anthea. “So if we need to escape you may join us.”

He seemed to be directing the last part more at John. “Well, of course she will,” he agreed, having thought that was a given. “Is it—“ He thought better of his question and scooted off the bed. “Can I talk to you out here?” he asked Sherlock explicitly, when the other man missed his more discreet signals.

He feared Sherlock was going to protest, but then he left the bed with a put-upon sigh. He took the opportunity to discard his own jacket as well, which John saw as a sign that he was not entirely unaffected by the environment, much as he liked to pretend otherwise. John led them into the hall and shut the bedroom door on Molly and Anthea, then kept on going to the living room.

“What is wrong with you?” Sherlock wanted to know. “I had assumed with your training and experience you would be useful in a crisis. Is this inaccurate?”

John tried to see the compliment in this. “No, it’s accurate,” he promised in a low voice. “But I need to know _more_.” Sherlock didn’t seem to follow. “Is it _likely_ we’ll have to escape?” he asked. “ _Has_ the water been cut off? What’s going on with the rioters?”

“You assume I know,” Sherlock noted, his tone suggesting he didn’t.

That seemed bad. “Isn’t your brother saying?” He nodded at Sherlock’s phone.

“He doesn’t know either.” John’s eyes widened in alarm. “We’re locked down and no one’s broken through,” Sherlock added. “But everyone who is containing the rioters is too busy to provide updates at the moment.” He seemed fairly matter-of-fact about this.

“So someone _is_ containing the rioters, then,” John surmised, daring to feel some relief.

“Well, trying to.” There went relief.

“Who?”

Sherlock finally seemed to accept that John was asking so he could make use of the information, instead of panicking. “First line is Greg’s internal security guards,” he described. “Not the complacent slobs you see at checkpoints to the slave zone,” he added disdainfully. “The professionals who handle the public areas.”

“Are those the ones who never smile, and look at everyone like they’re a terrorist?” John asked dubiously. He’d heard many warnings in the slave quarters to avoid drawing their attention.

“Probably,” Sherlock agreed without concern. He caught John’s disapproval. “You’ll be glad they know what they’re doing,” he predicted, “if they put the riot down.”

“Along with the rioters, and any innocent people who get in their way,” John countered grimly.

“There _are_ no innocent people, John,” Sherlock told him, and John knew this was not mere cynicism or selfishness on Sherlock’s part, but practically a mission statement from the upper crust in charge of society.

The realization filled him with a profound despair and he sat down heavily on the couch. Sherlock perched in a chair, watching him curiously, and John tried to stay focused. “Okay. If the security guards need back-up, they can call--?”

“Local police,” Sherlock answered. “But, they’re largely corrupt with conflicted loyalties, and probably busy keeping the rest of the city contained. News of one riot could set off others.”

John nodded. This _was_ very like being an occupying force in a hostile country, but with a lot of extra civilians on your side—children, the elderly—to think of. “And after that?”

“Fort Nelson,” Sherlock said, which John was expecting. “They’re likely already on the alert. But look, John,” he added soberly, “if the military is called in, it’s very serious, and we’ll probably be evacuated. When they sweep through they’re going to shoot anything that moves.”

John understood his meaning—he’d been in a similar position himself, clearing terrorist outposts where anyone could be friend or foe. “How do the other slaves get out? The ones in the slave quarters? How are they evacuated?” He was getting a cold feeling in his stomach from the way Sherlock silently blinked at him.

“They don’t.”

“But you said the Army—“

“They best keep their heads down,” Sherlock advised neutrally. “Good slaves know that, John,” he added, in a possible attempt at comforting.

“Right. Naturally.”

Sherlock gave him an assessing look. “John, getting angry is not going to increase your chances of survival,” he warned. “You need to remain calm and subservient if you meet anyone who could help you.”

“I know, I know.”

Sherlock read another message on his phone, which he didn’t share with John, but his voice had lost the patronizing quality John found absurdly reassuring. “You need to be clever about it,” he continued. “Play up being a slave and wanting to get home to the military or other authorities. But with ordinary citizens don’t be afraid to complain about your masters to generate camaraderie.”

John nodded for a moment, then his words sunk in. “You talk like you wouldn’t be coming with us,” he said slowly.

“Down the hatch, east to the boats,” Sherlock repeated instead of answering. “Don’t make landfall too quickly, make sure you’re at a different city—“

“Sherlock.”

He sighed. “The security guards are falling back,” he admitted, indicating his phone. “Not good.”

“Bit not good, yeah,” John agreed, his mouth dry.

“I would need to check on Mummy, is the thing,” Sherlock went on. He tried to sound straightforward but didn’t quite make it. “If there was an evacuation order. Might mean rioters in the halls. Not very safe.”

“Not very safe for _you_ to be in the halls,” John pointed out.

“I have ways of getting around.”

“I’ll come with you,” John told him, and he could see Sherlock was going to object. “You would never make it to the center on your own—“

Alarmingly, this did not offend Sherlock. “You need to get Molly out,” he countered, adding after a moment, “and Anthea.”

“Molly is pretty tough,” John assured him. She was a survivor if nothing else. “She can get Anthea to the boat. If you’re going out there, I’m coming with you.”

For a moment they had a stand-off. If Sherlock was serious about leaving behind his escape route to check on his mother—a development at once surprising and not—John was not going to let him go alone. Sherlock might be better able to handle himself than the average pampered family member, but his arrogance and lack of fear would make him reckless, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to talk himself _out_ of any trouble. So if he wanted to reach Mummy alive, he’d definitely need John’s help.

And apparently, John was willing to put his _own_ life at risk to help him. No time to examine that now.

Then Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if John was being foolish but the most efficient method was to indulge him, and John relaxed slightly. “Well, it’s not going to come to that, anyway,” Sherlock reversed, back to his usual confidence. “Are you finished being comforted?”

“Yes, thank you,” John claimed, standing. “Well done.”

He hadn’t meant anything by it, but Sherlock suddenly grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him up close. “Well done, _sir_ ,” he corrected John in a dangerous tone. “When this is over, we are going to have a discussion about your poor attitude.”

Inexplicably John’s heart beat faster as he imagined which instruments this might involve. “Really?” he asked, sounding perhaps a touch too eager.

Sherlock smirked, which took his breath away, and let him go. “Go back to the girls,” he instructed, turning his attention to his phone.

John stumbled away a few steps. “You’re coming, too, right?” he checked, now wary of Sherlock slipping away on a foolish rescue mission. Not something one usually worried about with Sherlock.

“I’m telling Mycroft what a trial you are,” Sherlock claimed, texting in exasperation. John thought the man probably had other things to worry about right now, and he dared to tug on Sherlock’s sleeve. Sherlock followed him distractedly, huffing indignantly as they rounded the corner to the hall. “Mycroft says it’s what I deserve,” he reported, clearly not understanding the significance of this.

“He’s stressed right now,” John excused.

They went back to the bedroom, where Molly and Anthea were still huddled on the bed, peering at the laptop. “There’s people on the screen,” Molly reported worriedly as soon as they came in.

“I think they’re security guards,” Anthea added.

Sherlock came around to look. “Reinforcements,” he noted. John could not tell from his tone if this was good or bad.

There didn’t seem to be much else to do but wait. John went over every step of various plans in his mind—convincing Sherlock to leave with them, convincing Molly to leave _without_ them, how they would get to the boats or to Mummy. Given Mycroft and Sherlock’s obsessive devotion John felt Mummy was probably the safest person in the household; they’d pop her off in a helicopter even if all the other seats were empty. That was going to be his argument to Sherlock, anyway. John had no idea what Sherlock himself was thinking about, since he simply sat silently in his chair with his feet up and his head back, staring at the ceiling. The stillness in the room was unnerving, broken only by the bubble of the eel tank and the occasional buzz of Sherlock’s phone, whose messages he did not share.

A rush of air startled John and he jerked his head up, disoriented, and realized he must have fallen asleep. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, having been expecting an Army tent in the deserts of Gelsomina, but then understanding came flooding back, along with a curious sense of relief. Especially once he grasped that the rushing air was the air conditioning system, and that the lights were starting to flicker back on.

“Anthea. Molly,” he prompted, shaking the girls gently.

“Oh, the lights are on,” Molly mumbled sleepily.

“Sherlock? What does Lord Mycroft say?” John asked, since Sherlock was texting avidly.

“I’m telling him what rotten survival skills you all have,” he claimed. “Anthea’s the only one who managed to stay awake and that’s probably only due to fear of _me_ anyway.” She rolled her eyes slightly but froze when Sherlock gave her a pointed look.

“Knock it off,” John advised Sherlock. “What’s _happening_?”

“Riot’s been quelled, lights are back on, public is being expelled,” Sherlock reported in a chipper tone. “Wouldn’t want to be in the city tonight, it’ll be madness.”

“G-d,” John sighed, leaning back against the pillows. He felt relieved, yes, but he also knew this was hardly the end of the problems. Okay, so they weren’t going to be torn apart by rioters— _today_. But three of them were still slaves, and everyone outside was still poor.

And Sherlock was still Sherlock, but he was probably alright with that.

He bounced out of his chair suddenly, as if the enforced rest had allowed him to store up energy. “Well, get out,” he ordered, and it took John a moment to realize he was speaking to Anthea. She was not surprised, however, and was already scrambling off the bed.

“Sherlock!” John chastised. “It might not be safe—“

“The security systems are back on,” Sherlock dismissed. “It’s perfectly fine for her to return to her keeper.”

John shook his head. “I’ll help you with the door,” he promised, following her out.

“She’s welcome to stay and play with my eels!” Sherlock offered loudly, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs.

“Ignore him,” John advised Anthea. “He’s just bored now.” Anthea was too professional to agree overtly.

John cranked up the portcullis for her and secured it, all the while listening awkwardly to the unpleasant squelching sounds coming from the bedroom. “He’s probably just—“ Molly squealed, then giggled, then moaned. “You know, I’d better walk you back, just in case,” John decided, following Anthea quickly out the door.


End file.
